When my Yugoslavian friend chastised me, a writer, for not indulging in online affairs, I told him I didn't need e-mail; I already had enough junk mail. I really couldn't bother installing a modem simply to type inane messages to total strangers. Nonetheless, my mother had gone away to Europe, leaving her house mostly empty. She had a home office with a computer, where I could enjoy a sense of privacy should the need arise.

My brother had recently shown me how to track a stock portfolio, so I figured I could mouse around to check out 15-minute delayed stock prices.

I logged onto America Online one morning on my mother's account. Her name is Lynn, one of those names that, while androgynous, is assumed to be female. As a certified computer ignoramus, I didn't think to change my displayed name, so I stayed Lynn. I navigated into some all-American place called "Best Lil Chat House."

In real life, those of us over 30 are expected to be mature adults, ruled by society and superego. But here, it suddenly occurred to me, I could get away with being my most outrageous self. How far could I go? Pseudonymous and faceless, it seemed I could proclaim in the Best Lil Chat House whatever I desired. The potential for personality pranks and word games appealed to me. (Although self-given, "fictional" names are the rule rather than the exception online, the electronic aliases in this article have been changed to protect - and encourage - the guilty to continue with their delightful indiscretions.)

The talk in Best Lil Chat House was for the most part prosaic. But the use of punctuation symbols like brackets that sometimes surrounded names such as {{{{{Beavis}}}}} piqued my curiosity. These were signs of affection similar to hugs. Amid much talk of coffee, some people offered a multiplicity of @ symbols in lieu of muffins.

My first few comments met with no explicit recognition by others in the room. Everyone was busy hugging each other with brackets, kaffee klatsching, and praising the onset of spring. I was being ignored.

To stir up the situation, I announced I would have to poop soon. Still no reply. "Is anyone masturbating right now?" I wondered aloud. This remark did bring me attention. The comment earned the first reference to me by name (or rather by my mother's chosen login name, Lynnmarg). I felt an infantile joy. Suddenly, I was receiving the attention I craved. It may have been negative, but, hey, they were talking to me. They were saying I was vulgar. Veiled threats were made about being kicked off the Net. Someone mentioned an obscure bylaw prohibiting such verbal misdeeds as those I'd just committed. Mention was made of a personage known as a Guide - kind of electronic den mother providing a modicum of authority and technological direction.

But I quickly discovered that prudery was not universal. I attempted to enter a cyber-room called The Flirt's Nook. The room, however, was already at its maximum with 23 Don Juans and Mata Haris inside. I took up the computer's offer to send me to another room like the first. Here I was assailed by rabidly horny, faceless American males. I had momentarily forgotten that I was generally assumed to be a woman.

Not since I was, as a 7-year-old boy, mistakenly placed in the girls' group in day camp had I been so mortified by a genuine lack of appreciation for my gender. These male personae took little notice of the salient fact that I, too, was trying to charm females.

Even more remarkable, they paid no attention to my explicit claims to be male! "I'M A GUY," I would protest.

"QUIT SHOUTING, Lynnmarg," came one reply - a reference to my use of capitals. "This is not my computer," I insisted. "I'm a guy. My real name is Dorion."

"What kind of name is that supposed to be?" typed someone, apparently enjoying my temporary emotional distress. This offhand comment sparked a Zen-like conversion. The experience of the mystic is to die - to let go of his ego - before he dies. He or she enjoys a death-in-life: it allows him or her to identify with others, to become them and ultimately one with the universe. In my epiphany, I accepted my fate. I would be unable to prove the gender of my identity while online. Let them think I was not a guy.

Dorion Sagan is a writer and magician. He is co-author of Mystery Dance: On the Evolution of Human Sexuality.